


Smoke

by theboyking



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Community: spnkink_meme, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Kink, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:10:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theboyking/pseuds/theboyking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for the spnkink_meme <a href="http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/70609.html?thread=24471249#t24772305">prompt</a>: <i>Someone likes to watch Dean smoke. He realizes and plays on it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke

“That's our cue.” Dean says, leaned over to grab his drink off the bar behind Sam. There are four pairs of eyes watching him from the pool table he just walked away from, 175 bucks in his pocket that weren't there before. He tosses back the last of the whiskey in the glass, and Sam nods.

“Yeah, I'll meet you at the car. Gotta piss.”

Dean nods absently, pulls his leather jacket on, and heads for door, all easy confidence and just a bit of challenge that comes when Dean's got a few drinks in him and some small-town douchebags watching him walk away with their money.

Sam spots Dean leaned against the driver’s door of the Impala, lit cigarette dangling from his lips, watching the door. 

He'd noticed, of course, _before_. Dean would come home late, smelling of whiskey and leather and smoke and occasionally sex and Sam assumed for a while that it was secondhand, that everybody walked out of the kinds of small town dive bars Dean frequented smelling like cigarettes. 

Then he'd found the crushed pack of Marlboros under the passenger seat of the Impala. He never said anything, but that destroyed bit of thin cardboard had prompted many a fantasy that Sam was barely able to admit to himself.

The reality hits him like a punch to the gut. Dean looks up at him, brings the cigarette to his lips, cocks an eyebrow, and Sam can't fucking help it if he immediately thinks of Marlon Brando, James Dean, all rebellion and edge and pure, undiluted sex appeal. 

"Since when-" Sam clears his throat, doesn't like that hint of _whatever_ , prays to God Dean doesn't notice, "Since when do you smoke?"

Dean looks at him a bit sideways for a moment. Sam is clearly avoiding something, and Dean is trying to work out what. Then he shrugs. "Does it matter?"

Sam shakes his head, swallows as Dean takes one last long drag and drops the butt, grinds it into the concrete with the toe of his boot. "No. It's just... well. Not exactly good for you."

Dean laughs, one of those whole-body numbers that Sam hasn't seen in far, far too long, then opens the door. "Pretty sure I'll be dead long before I get a chance to get lung cancer, Sam."

Sam can't argue with that. 

_____

 

Dean's not stupid. He's been around the block, knows people, knows his _brother_ most of all, and there was definitely _something_ in the way Sam looked at him when he walked out of that bar. 

It’s a few days later when he decides to test the theory. 

Sam's in the shower, and Dean is cleaning guns. It's rhythmic, therapeutic almost. Dean knows his guns like he knows his body, better maybe. He can lose himself in it for hours, and when he's done the tension in his shoulders has loosened, the constant buzz of worry and guilt and anger in his head has quieted to a level he can manage. He hears the water shut off, and smiles just a little to himself. Show time.

He takes out a cigarette, lights it, and goes back to work. 

When the door opens, he's got it between his lips, eyes squinted up a little against the smoke that's lazily curling up to pool in a cloud below the ceiling. He barely catches the quick little inhale from Sam's direction, but when he glances up he knows he heard correctly.

Sam's eyes are a little wide, lips parted. He blushes just a little bit when Dean catches him, looks away quickly, but Dean's seen all he needs to. _Gotcha._

He drags deep, takes the cigarette between his fingers and taps it into the glass ashtray sitting in front of him on the bed. "Alright there, Sammy?"

Sam glares. Dean grins. Fine. If Sam wants to play, they'll play.

"Do you have to do that in here?" Sam asks, and it comes out pissier, more defensive than Dean thinks Sam probably intended.

He raises an eyebrow, takes another deliberate drag, watches as Sam's blush deepens just a little. When he puts it out, he thinks Sam looks a little disappointed. "Sorry. I didn't know it... _bothered_ you." He smirks. Can't help it. He's onto Sam, and Sam knows it, but apparently they're playing the denial game for the moment. Dean's okay with it. If Sam's playing the denial game, that means that Dean gets to play the work-Sammy-into-a-frenzy game, and _that_ game is one of Dean's absolute favorites.

_____

 

Dean lets Sam catch him smoking as often as he can. Sam always looks away quickly, complains about the smell, rattles off statistics about heart disease and emphysema and reduced lung capacity, but he does it between stealing glances, with bitten lips and a blush on his cheekbones and hitched breaths and if Dean has been avoiding getting Sam off for the last week or two, well. They've been busy. He's been tired.

_____

 

They're both covered in sweat and blood and grime, leftover adrenaline leaving them both almost a little giddy when they peel out down the dirt road from the vamp nest they just took out. Dean turns up the music and rolls down his window and lights up. He hears the sharp exhale from the passenger seat and glances over. Sam isn't even pretending not to look, eyes bright and he looks fucking good like this, skin flushed from exertion and probably some arousal, because they're both pretty twisted, honestly, and killing things that are far stronger than them and coming out intact always gets the endorphins flowing.

"I'm not putting it out, Sam. Don't ask." 

Sam licks his lips, and if Dean wasn't turned on before, he is now. "Wasn't going to."

"Good." Dean says, taking a deep drag and stepping on the gas. 

Sam closes the space between them quickly, grabs Dean's dick through his jeans, kisses him rough and deep and dirty. Dean can't help the hint of a moan, and breaks away, panting, just in time to save them from flying off the side of the road. 

" _Jesus_ , Sam. I'm driving."

"How far to the motel?" Sam asks, voice low and shot through with arousal. 

Dean looks over at him and _god_ , too fucking far. 

"Not far," he replies, grabbing Sam's wrist and removing his hand from his crotch, "and hands to yourself until we get there."

Sam's hand immediately goes to his own crotch and Dean grabs his wrist again, pinning him with a look. "If you touch yourself we're not fucking. Sit on your hands if you have to, but if I have to wait so do you."

" _Fuck._ " Sam breathes. 

"That's the idea." Dean says, and brings his smoke to his lips with slightly shaky hands. 

_____

 

They're barely through the door before Sam is on him, all hands and lips and teeth and _shit_ , it feels like it's been _years_.

"You have no idea how fucking bad I want you right now, Dean." Sam growls into his ear, backing him up and shoving him down on the bed roughly. He pulls his shirt off, shoves his pants down. "Been driving me fucking crazy for days. _Christ_ , Dean."

And Dean pushes himself up, pulls off his own shirt, wastes no fucking time. When Sam climbs on top of him, kisses him and bites at his lips, big calloused hands all over the place, Dean takes advantage of his distraction and flips them, pins Sam underneath him, straddling his naked hips. Sam's breath leaves him in a huff and his eyes darken with arousal when Dean undoes his belt, pulls it from the loops. 

He barely fights when Dean loops the belt around his wrists and through the headboard. Just lays there, eyes wide, chest heaving. Dean smirks, gets out of his pants. Reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. Pulls one out. Lights it. Looks Sam dead in the eye as he brings it to his lips. Sam shudders. _There_ it is.

Dean grinds his hips down in a lazy circle over Sam's crotch, and Sam bucks, chokes out a whimper. "I knew it. You kinky bastard." He smiles, takes another deep pull. "You fucking love this, don't you?" He says on the exhale.

Sam's fingers flex uselessly above him and he nods, swallowing convulsively. "So fucking hot, Dean."

Dean loves it when Sam gets like this. He slides his free hand up Sam's chest and Sam arches into it. "Suck." He says, and shoves two fingers past Sam's lips. Dean swears he can feel the vibrations in his cock when Sam moans around them, deep and low and _gorgeous_. He takes a drag, watches Sam watch him as he sucks on his fingers, and good god he could do this forever, spend the rest of his life with his little brother going to pieces under him and never ever want for anything ever again.

He stubs out the cigarette and takes his takes his fingers back, reaches back and pushes them both inside himself without preamble. Sam whimpers. 

"Where's the lube?" Dean asks, scissoring his fingers, working himself open as fast as he can, and it's not enough, won't be nearly enough, but he doesn't care, likes it better that way. 

"Drawer." Sam croaks, fighting the belt around his wrists. "In the drawer." 

Dean grabs it, dumps some in his palm, locks eyes with Sam as he reaches behind him and slicks up Sam's cock, one, two quick strokes before he's rising up on his knees, one hand around the base of Sam’s cock and the other on his own. 

He sinks down quickly, right to the base, a moan rumbling up from his gut and through his throat at the impossible burn and glorious stretch and the way Sam is almost hyperventilating underneath him.

He grinds his hips in an experimental circle and the head of Sam's cock brushes his prostate and he shudders. " _Shit_." 

"Dean." Sam whines, thrusting up with what little leverage he can get in this position. "You're so fucking _tight_ , holy _shit_."

"Like that, Sammy?" He breathes, moving now, sliding up and sinking back down, slow, too slow, and Sam is starting to sweat, little panting breaths going straight to Dean's already absurdly hard cock.

" _Fuck yes._ " Sam breathes, and Dean raises himself up until only the head of Sam's dick is still inside him and stops, just hovers there, looking down at Sam trembling below him.

"Then _fuck me_." He growls, wrapping his right hand around his cock and squeezing. It takes only a second for it to register, then Sam is pulling his legs up, feet planted firmly on the bed, and then he's moving, hips snapping up hard, over and over and over, hitting Dean's prostate on nearly every brutal thrust.

Dean is not going to last, not when he's got Sam under him, biting his lip in concentration, white knuckled grip on the headboard, fucking up into him like a man possessed, splitting him open and filling him up so fucking perfect. "Come on, Sammy, harder. You can do better than that. _Fuck me._ Like you mean it, bitch."

That does it. "Fuck, Dean. Oh, _god_ ," and Sam loses it, any semblance of rhythm or grace replaced by this primal need for _morefasterharderdeeperfuckyesjustlikethat_ and Dean feels his orgasm starting in his toes and racing up every nerve ending and then it slams into him full force like a hurricane and he's coming, whole body spasming and vision going black and sounds he didn't even know he could make spilling out of him as Sam slams deep one last time and spills inside him, Dean's name on his lips.

They collapse, panting and sweaty, Dean's come sticky between their chests, and Dean slides the belt off Sam's wrists.

"Holy shit, Dean." Sam breathes, running his hands up Dean's back, "That was..."

"Yeah." Dean croaks into the skin of Sam's shoulder. "Yeah."

He pulls off slowly and immediately collapses back down next to Sam, sweat and come cooling on his skin, utterly spent. 

"You really should quit smoking though." Sam says after a moment, and Dean laughs.

"No chance in hell."


End file.
